The Journal That Started It All

The Journal That Started It All

I still remember my very first journal. I got it for Christmas when I was 10 years old. It was small—just the right size to hold in the palms of my hands—with a light blue and pink striped fabric cover. On the side, there was a tiny gold lock shaped like a heart, and a matching little key.

It felt beautiful–delicate and precious.  It was the first thing that felt entirely mine. A sanctuary away from the rest of the world. I wrote in it diligently, always careful to lock it against prying eyes.

As the years went by, I kept journaling. My taste evolved from hardcover books with locks to softcover notebooks filled with elegantly scripted inspirational quotes. Eventually, I gave up lined pages altogether—no lines to control me or limit the size of my writing.

Fast forward to college. Still journaling, though not as often. Gone were the cringey “dear diary” entries, but the pages were still filled with emotion—young, raw, and vulnerable.

I still remember the moment I knew my college boyfriend had read my journal. The fingerprint smudges on the dusty nightstand of my first apartment. The horror, the wave of shame, the awful vulnerability. My secrets laid bare. For someone to judge. Or tell.

I ended things with him—and with journaling—that day.

Impulsive? Maybe. But at the time, it felt like the only way to take my power back. Even if I walked away with my dignity in pieces.

It took me years to come back to journaling, and when I did, I knew I had to approach it differently.  But that’s a story for another time.